


and so, it goes

by kuro49



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Father/Son Incest, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:49:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s nothing, nothing, this feeling budding in his chest like a nuclear bomb pressed against his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so, it goes

**Author's Note:**

> It feels like it's been a while since my last Hansencest fic except it's not???

He is always going to be that boy, that boy with the death wish, the one to become the man with the nails bitten to the nail bed.

(Even without the ability to fit everyone in your head like you are their home, their mother’s cooking and their father’s words of praises, you are going still, going so much further still like it has no intention of killing you. And that kills you too.)

Chuck Hansen goes out with goodbye lodged in his throat, and if the blood is coming up now, maybe the words can be knocked loose from between his teeth. No one hears the rattling, but he can feel it in his bones.

He turns his head, and tells the Marshal that it’s been a pleasure.

Calls him _sir_ , like he does when that’s his father on his right, and twists the corners of his lips into something that isn’t a scowl, like he’s never done once when that’s his father on his right. Because there is no family in a Conn-Pod, there’s just a Jaeger jockey and his co-pilot setting nearly two thousand tonnes of metal in motion. That might be a smile, but his father doesn’t see when he’s got his eyes closed in LOCCENT.

He doesn’t mistake the water dripping from Striker’s compromised Conn-Pod for tears.

 

“Marshal, you’re not doing either of them any favours if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“I’ve lived this long, Becket. I will live through this too.”

 

There is no fair answer to this.

Because he doesn’t lose his edge, or his touch, Hercules Hansen loses just about everything else though. What he wakes up to is sweat-drenched sheets and a cold, cold bed. He wakes up, half hard in his briefs and his head pounding from sleeping in fragments.

The war ends, but his life doesn’t.

And their lives don’t either but nothing has start back up.

He gets off on dying men, and that’s just as horrific as it sounds.

 

“Marshal, your son—”

“I know.”

“—he’s awake.”

 

He is sixteen, and he reminds him of pins and needles.

He is seventeen, and he reminds him of having a fever that soaks the sheets.

He is eighteen, he wants to ask for the things that will never be given to him. He is eighteen, and he reminds him of having a dream, and losing faith.

He bites down, he sinks his teeth in. He doesn’t taste blood, he tastes something that runs much thicker than that when he looks to his father. His old man that’s got an iron base to his pigment, red hair that looks like it could bleed red on the pillowcase. In the dark, it looks like blood in the water.

(And if biology works that way, maybe he won’t be your father and you won’t be his son, and if the world works that way, maybe you wouldn’t take a knife to yourself just to cut him out of you. Cut that part of yourself, the only part that isn’t regret and guilt.)

He is twenty-one and he wakes up like this is a bad, bad dream.

 

“You’ve got a future. You’re young, Chuck.”

“I was younger, dad.”

 

Chuck Hansen sits up.

And the fact that he can, without blood coming back up from his throat, internal damage and all? Well, that is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

In another room, Stacker Pentecost’s eyes flutter beneath his eyelids.

No one sees, but Charles Hansen can feel it seizing in his _bones_ and what is a drift if it isn’t something that cuts wide and deep, hacking kills into marrow and then deeper still. He sits up, and he thinks he is laughing now. He thinks because he hasn’t laughed for a long while now, and even to his own ears, his laughter rings like that bedside alarm that goes on and on.

It’s a thing that nobody likes but everybody’s got to live with.

It’s not just a little bit like him.

It is him in his entirety.

This grating ringing that echoes, and he wonders how his father could ever stand to have him in his head, knowing the things that he knows and for half a decade too. He also wonders how the Marshal could achieve a drift that hits the one hundred percent mark in the impending doom when all he’s got in his head is a wretched, twisted thing that almost passes for what a family should be.

 

“I shouldn’t be alive.”

“And here you are, son.”

 

Herc can’t fix his son where it matters because he is his fix in every single way that counts. He gets cut out of him after every drift and it’s just as painful as it sounds when that crater fills up again with every drift. The tides don't turn for him and Chuck never does tell his father. He simply tells him the truth, only because it is true.

"I shouldn't be alive."

There is nothing like family when they are in the Conn-Pod, and so, this is nothing too, this feeling budding in his chest like a nuclear bomb pressed against his back.

“… And I shouldn’t even consider doing this, Chuck.”

His father draws back just as quickly as when he leans in, but his mouth meets his.

 

XXX Kuro


End file.
